The Instances in the life of Alexandria Schmidt
by ThePandoricaWillOpen
Summary: Alexandria is just your regular college student... on campus. Out of school, she pushes drugs on a posh street corner. Until one day she sees the 'stripped tomato' whizzing by and her life becomes... complicated. *OC Character meeting the boys, Instances format*
1. Chapter 1

I was working my usual spot, down on fifth and state, when I saw the car blazing by, wheels practically on fire, a blond head sticking out of the passenger side, screaming his arse off as the driver turned the corner with a loud squeal of the tyres. The red car with the white stripped running elegantly through it, stayed in my mind until my next client, a short kid of about fifteen passed by, whistling a tune that signalled he had my money. I followed the boy, turning the same corner the red car had, into a side street. The tyres had left black marks on the floor and the boy was intent of following them. We turned another corner and he stopped. I could see he was strung out by the way his shoulder were shaking – hell, his entire body was shaking – and, once he spun around, the way he kept licking his lips and twitching his head.

"How much you want?" I asked, putting my hands on my hips and waiting for the boy to produce his money before I would give him any of my merchandise. He said nothing, his hand coming up to wipe some sweat from his forehead, his eyes on the floor between us. I snapped my fingers, trying to get his attention. "Hey, boy, are we here to chat or are you gonna buy?"

"Sixty," he finally said after a moment where I thought I might have left my spot for nothing.

"You don't sound so sure," I tell him, crossing my arms over my chest. He nodded, his black curly locks moving along with the shake of his head. He begins to mutter things that I do not understand, moving his hands this way and that like a hand model in one of those hand commercials. He shakes his head a couple of times and I'm not sure if its towards me or if he's talking to himself. "Is it sixty bucks worth or not?"

I hold out my hand and he takes out three 20's, his entire wallet it seems, and puts the bills in my hand. I take a second; looking at the bills that are now in my possession and taking a close look at the kid in front of me. He looks like he really needs to score, but it almost looks too real. But I take a gander and, reaching down to my knees where, tucked deep into my boots, I retrieve a small bag of white powder. It isn't my fault that they use so much, especially sixty bucks worth (three bags which leaves me with only two left); I just sell the stuff.

I take out three bags and press them into his sweaty hands. He quickly snatches them from under my grasp, like he thought I might be taking them back at any moment. The street we are on is suddenly to close in, the shops we are by are too narrow and I feel the world closing in on me. I take a step back, looking at the kid in front of me with worry as he pries one of the bags open with his bare teeth in the middle of the street.

"Okay, man," I told him, my hands in the air. "We are done here."

I slowly back away, my hands still raised up in a non-confrontational way. I know all about these junkies and the way they get when a bag is put in their hands. Their minds turn to caveman mentality and all they can think about is sniffing the hell out of the bag and putting all the sugary white powder in their bodies. Usually, they take so much within the first hour of getting their goods that they either die of an overdose, or call me up asking for more. No money, no help - that is my policy.

I made my way back to my corner on fifth and state slowly, turning my head to make sure the junkie kid wasn't following me. It wasn't a regular thing, junkies tailing me, but this kid; there was something about him that just wasn't right. If he were to follow me, I had a nice surprise for him packed away at my waist, right beside my moneybag. No one ripped me off and lived to tell about it, at least not yet.

* * *

My corner of the city was nice and crowded with posh buildings and business suits walking around like they owned the entire world. It was also where most, if not all, workers of my trade made the most money. I had procured this little spot, in front of a designer store where all sorts of thin- waist woman came, from a little old lady who was tired of life on the street. She told me, "Alexandria, that's a good modest name. They will never suspect you to be a seller." And so, at the tender age of eighteen, I became a seller of goods that the little old lady, Miranda, made in her dark and dingy basement.

Miranda came around at a time of my life where, in my desperate need for money, I was, shall we say, in the lowest point in my life. I was doing things that, even now, I am not proud of. My reason? I was saving up to go to college, to be one of those professionals who would take me out to dinner at night and then take me to their posh homes full of fancy appliances and cars worth more than my life.

Now, I'm not saying that selling dope and other things are getting me where I want to be in life. But the money is good and, it is in fact, getting through college. Miranda understands, sending me only when I'm free and, always, asking if I'm sure I want to do this. "Yes," I tell her every time, "I need the money." And then I head out, wearing my street clothes and trying, successfully so far, to blend in with the crowd. I make my rounds, dropping a few deliveries for Miranda and then, working my corner.

In a good day, I make about twice as much as my tuition, which, in the long run, is better than most nickel and dime jobs out there.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time I saw that car was when my gun failed me. I was on one of my runs for Miranda, driving through the not-so-posh part of town, when one of our old customers, a guy by the name of Pitello, jumped into my car as I turned off the ignition and was about to get out of the car. The longhaired, strung out man jumped in, hands trembling so badly he had to try to close the door twice. Before I knew it, he had me by the neck. I screamed, but it was worthless seeing as he hand a firm grip on me.

"W-where a-are t-they?" he asked, his voice deep and shaky. "Give it to me. All of it!"

"I don't know what you're talking about, man!" I exclaim, trying to scratch Pitello with my long red nails. I connect with his skin but, as is with a lot of junkies, his extremities are disconnected from the rest of his brain or something 'cuz he doesn't feel anything. "Let me go, man!"

I try to reach for my gun but he gets to it first, cupping the side of my breast as he goes for my gun. I do nothing, too paralysed to try to do anything whilst he holds a gun over me. I don't have to, however, because before either of us knows what is happening, the passenger side door of my car is pulled open and a gun is staring right into the face of Pitello. I release a breath I hadn't known I'd taken as the gun falls from his grasp in surprise and he is pulled out of my car by a pair of strong hands.

I see the red car in my side mirror as I get out to thank my rescuer. And that is when I see him. He is manhandling a scared Pitello and pushing him towards another man, one with curly hair as wild as that kid a few weeks prior. Both men turn to me, talking to each other as they handcuff Pitello and throw him into their car. I know they are cops and I quickly get my stash of deliveries and stuff them into my small hand bag, taking out the gun and presenting it to them as they approach.

The two men stand in front of me and I can tell, even without knowing them, just how mirror opposites they are.

One, my saviour, is tall, blond and blue eyed with a sensible and intelligent look to him. His eyebrows are scrunched under his dark sunglasses, which he removes once I begin to stare at him. He has this aura about him, like he knows whom he is and he isn't about to take crap from you. But at the same time, his baby face has this lovable quality about him that is just sexy.

The other is shorter by a few inches and he walks with the swag that I've seen many cocky men walk with. His jacket old, patches covering parts of the leather with many different colours that somehow works together. His face is the opposite of the blond, with a giant smile (a cocky smile that I want to slap off his face) and he looks at me with a hunger that makes me want to cover up my breast from his eyes.

He is the total opposite of the man to his left, but I can see in the way they sort of lean towards each other that they are confortable with one another and completely trust each other. For a second, I wish I had that same relationship with someone.

* * *

I was taken down to the station, a dreary building that looked like it had been squashed down like a cockroach from the outside. It was stumpy looking, more like a sheriffs office than a police station but maybe that was just me. I follow the curly haired man – Starsky – to their 'office' to get my official report. Their office is just a room with two rows of four tables put together and facing a dark brown door that says, in red crayon, Captain Dobey's Office. I take a quick look at the sheet as he leads me to his side of the table, depositing a large typewriter.

He begins to type, his fingers pushing the keys with a slowness that tells me he doesn't usually type reports up. The clicks of the keys quickly get on my nerves and I begin to tap my feet against the floor with impatience. A few times, I find myself looking towards the door in search of a blond head and brown jacket, but I stop myself, concentration on the man in front of me as he asks me basic questions.

"Now, Miss," he says with a drawl I recognize. New York, huh, I think, Nice to see someone from my part of the country. "I need to know your name, age and where you are from."

"What makes you think I'm not from around here," I ask, leaning on the table on my elbows.

"Are you?"

"My name is Alexandria Schmidt, I'm 21 and, yes, you are correct. I am not from Bay City, I am from Chicago." I lean back in my seat and wait for it. Every time someone hears that I am from Chicago, they think doing a 'Chicago accent' is the most hilarious thing to do. I wait for it and sure enough, just ten seconds later, he begins. I wait for it to end and then ask, "Can I go now or are you going to keep making fun of the way I talk?"

He falters and I smile. The double doors swing open and his blond comrade comes in. He has taken off his leather jacket, leaving a loose fitted black shirt that seems too hot to wear in this weather. His jacket hangs over his shoulder, just barely touching his holstered gun on his left. I smile at him as he walks behind Starsky, patting him on the back and pointing at the coffee machine behind him. Curly shakes his head, returning his attention to me but my eyes are glued on the movements of his partner.

His back is slightly hunched, like the elegant curve of a snake. His shoulders are broad; his arms muscled with all sorts of veins popping out from under his pale skin. He almost reminds me of the boys back home. All I need is a voice to confirm it.

"Where are you from?" I ask as he turns, setting a coffee cup in front of me.

He looks at me, then his partner before replying with a gentle voice, "Minnesota." His eyebrow rose slight, his lips curving up into a goofy smile, he looks at his partner with an elegant curved eyebrow before turning back to me. "Why?"

"Ever been to Chicago?"

"No."

"You look like a native," I tell him after a second, taking a small sip from the black coffee he had set down in front of me. I let the warm goo go down my throat, letting my eyes close on their own as I enjoy the warmth I feel inside of me. I open my eyes a moment later and ask, "Can I go now?"

They let me go, surprisingly without checking up on me. This astonishes me but I let it go, finishing my coffee, signing the report that the blond – Hutchinson – finishes in less time that it took Starsky to type my name up. I leave without another word and get into my car to finish my rounds. Hutchinson stays in my mind, however, and, even as I go to class later in the day, he plagues it without mercy.


	3. Chapter 3

Miranda decides that, after my 'ordeal' with Pitello, I should take a day off. Nothing more, nothing less, just one full day of nothing but relaxation and 'me time' as she calls it. I try it out. It is a weekend, no school to worry about, so I call up some of my friends and we make a girls day. As full time college women, they have nothing better to do than study and take any chance they can to blow it off. Anyway, they would rather be at clubs meeting men than studying Greek translations for our final on Monday.

We meet up at school where we decide whose car to take and where to go. After careful consideration (mostly money wise), we decide to go shopping, and then to a local spa and then, later tonight, go clubbing. I am not the _let's gyrate our asses in men's crotches_ kind of girl but, with much pushing from my four friends, I agree.

"Perhaps you'll meet your dream man," they tease as we get into one of my friends car.

"Maybe then you'll stop being so uptight!" Martha, my least favourite friend (friend of a friend really) adds with a smirk and a cocked eyebrow. "Clubbing is fun, but meeting men is funner!"

I am tempted to say that 'funner' is not a word but I remain quite because, as I look from Ashley - a petite blond with curls as lush a silk – to Kennedy – a chocolate skinned princess as tall as a tree – and Alissa – perhaps the most emo of girls I've ever met – and see them nodding along with Martha, I begin to think back to my last boyfriend and find my mind going blank. It has been that long, perhaps longer than I care to admit, since I've been with a man. I've always told myself it was better that way. But these women don't seem to think so. It is all rather mundane in my world but in there's, having a man is everything. So, after a moment's hesitation, I follow their plan.

* * *

We enter the club, my eyes blinking rapidly as I try to adjust to the low light. My ears begin to ring with the loud music that seems to vibrate off the walls and floors. The place is as packed with people as rush hour, breaking off into groups that block the passage to the bar where, Martha (the strongest, and by strongest I mean biggest, of our group) leads the way. She pushes and shoves her way, pulling the rest of us along like puppets.

Five minutes later, we make it to the bar and I am exhausted and ready to go home. The girls, sporting new dresses so short that if they lean over just slightly, their business will be displayed to the world, want to explore the underground scene. They dressed me, worried that I would take some 'granny panties' and 'last years wears'. After a heated fight over my 'boring' clothes, I give up to their fashion rants and let them do their work on me. At the end, I am wearing a skirt they picked out along with a v-neck shirt they bought for me without my knowledge while they wear they're short dresses and high heals.

I pull down the skirt, unaccustomed to the feel of the leather against my skin, as the bartender comes our way. He is a tall fellow with dark skin and a funny accent. He immediately catches Kennedy's attention and she, with a wink to us, decides to steal a seat and remain at the bar. We order our drinks and wait while scouring the place for a table. Martha sees one with only a two men standing in our way. She taps Ashley, who taps Alisa who then taps me on the shoulder, and points to a table to the left of the bar where two men, one with curly hair and the other blond, sit.

I bite my lower lip, already knowing who they are even from behind. I shake my head but they've turned, gotten their drinks and are making their way to the two cops. I get my drink, offering a small thanks to the bartender and follow them. I push my way past them, take a deep breath and then walk right up to the table.

"Mind if we join you?" I ask. I motion to my friends who come up behind me. The two men stare at us, shocked. "You do remember me, don't you?" The two men stand up, nodding their heads enthusiastically. "Starsky and Hutch, is it not?"

"I'm Starsky," Curly says pointing to himself. "And this is the blond Blintz."

"Hutch," his partner says with a smile. He turned to me, blue eyes illuminated by the light of the club. "I do remember. it was only a few hours ago."

"Yes, it was," I reply with a thinly, my head tilting towards my friends who were looking at me confused. "So… may we join you?"

* * *

Kennedy returns to us, a sad smile on her face, an hour later. The man she had been trying to seduce was, to her disappointment, older than he appeared. I am uninterested in the discussion that follows, that of age and sex. I am sitting next to Hutch, knowing full well he is a cop whilst my friends are unaware. They talk about their excursions with older men, Martha (of course) tells of her 'joining', as she calls it, with one of her teachers. She looks straight at Starsky, cocking a painted on eyebrow and smiling. The detective smiles, looking away and turning towards his partner - Hutch picks his drink up, avoiding his gaze.

"So, Hutch," he says casually, leaning towards his partner on his elbow. Hutch doesn't turn to him but a smile forms on his lips, an amused smile. I look on intently, already recognizing this as a game for them. "Any input?"

"Not really," Hutch replies taking a sip of his beer.

"None at all?" his partner asks, eyebrow cocked and lips pulled up in a smirk. He was clearly baiting the blond, into what I could only guess. "You _always_ have something to say."

"I'm not very experienced with older women," Hutch said with a thin smile, "at least not like you are."

Starsky chuckles, looking away shyly. "Well, I do have some experience but not like you, hotshot." Hutch turns to him hand rose up to take a sip of his drink, his head tilted to the side in confusion. Starsky smirked widened. "Ah, C'mon you cant tell me you don't remember? Mrs Bailey?"

Horror strikes Hutch's beautiful features as he recognises the name. Curious, I eye Martha knowing she will get to the bottom of this mystery with her annoying ways. She cocks an eyebrow, similar to how Starsky did a few moments ago and delves into the mystery with open arms.

"Who is this _Mrs_ Bailey?"

"No one!" Hutch quickly says, his face flushed.

"No one, he says. If only old lady Bailey could hear ya know, Hutch!" Starsky exclaimed with fake outrage. He flings his arms exuberantly towards his partner, almost spilling his beer in the process, and proclaims, "Hutchi-poo and Bailey rolled in the hay once upon a time."

"Did not!"

"_I_ and my poor innocent, virgin eyes witness this rolling in the hay first hand," Starsky said dramatically, his voice bordering on hysterics. "It was on a warm summers eve, the sun was blazing down on us …"

I lost interest right away, his dramatic ways may be fetching for some but not for me. I could tell where his exaggerations took over, his eyes sparkling every once in a while towards Hutch confirming my suspicions. For my part, whilst keeping an amused look on my face, laughing along with the rest of the girls, I kept my eyes on Hutch. His fidgeting, adorable in its own way, attracted my attention continuously. He had large hands - I noted with a smile - his pale fingers were long and thin like the rest of him. He had a wiry composition, his muscular arms only visible through his shirt as he visibly flinched at the details Starsky was obviously exaggerating.

At one point, when the details got borderline infantile (seriously, who describes his best friends lean body to a group of girls they barely met inside a bar full of strangers), I reached out towards Hutch, catching his attention immediately. Our eyes met, making me loose focus instantly. He had the most marvellous blue eyes, I found myself thinking before shaking myself out of that line of thought. I'm not someone who needs a man to survive, especially not a cop. But that line of thinking makes the assumption that I…

"Why don't we get another round of drinks?" I ask before my thoughts decide to make a connection between what I feel and what I _could, _and probably_ should,_ feel. He nods, his eyes thanking me as we stand. "He's a dramatic one, ain't he?"

"Yeah," Hutch admits.

"How do you stand it?"

"Mostly ignorance and a good book," he smirks. "I guess I've gotten used to it, we've been partners a long time. I have some quirks of my own which he ignores."

"Well… It's a bit too much for me." We reach the bar and I lean down on it, my shirt riding up on my body and making me uncomfortable. I ignore it, tapping my fingers against the wooden bar and signalling the bartender for two shots. Hutch leans by my side, his lips curled up in amusement. I turn to him, brows furrowed. "What?"

"You are very honest and direct," he says. "It's hard to find someone like that here."

"It's the Chicago way," I say. "No bullshit or sugar coating, just straight and simple."

"I think we're gonna get along just fine," he says as our drinks arrive.

"I think so too."

* * *

The rest of the night goes well. There is laughing and drinking with a few dances in between. Mostly I sit whilst the girls dance with the two men and watch them as they flirt with them. Hutch never falters to make me chuckle as he stumbles around on the dance floor, stepping on toes and apologizing only to do it again. And he never falters to ask me to dance after returning to the table.

"C'mon," he tells me every time, sitting on the edge of his seat, his hands just inches from mine. "Let's dance."

I shake my head, taking my hands back and placing them on my lap. "I don't dance," I say every time. But he keeps coming back and asking, as if I will say yes if he keeps insisting. Starsky tries once and then gives up but I can't say I'm sorry for that.

After an hour, nearly morning technically, I gather my things and make my way through the crowd until I reach the exit. Once outside, I look in my purse and take out a pack of cigarettes, taking one out and placing it between my lips. I look for my lighter placing the pack back in my purse but don't find it.

"Mind if I join you?" A voice says from behind, startling me and making me drop my bag to the floor, scattering my things all over. I turn and see a pair of blue eyes, Hutch. He bends down, picking up my bag and scattered things before I can even react. I take my bag back when offered, giving him a weak thank you. "I'm sorry for startling you. The pounding music was giving me a headache."

"Your friend was giving me a headache," I say inhaling the smooth aroma from my now finished cigarette. "Want a drag?"

He shakes his head. "I don't smoke… anymore."

"Bummer." I drop the bud on the floor, stomping it with the heel of my boot and sigh. "I think … I'm going to call it a night."

I leave without another word, leaving Hutch to either trail after me or go back inside. He chooses the latter and that somehow makes me wish I hadn't left. No, I tell myself, I don't need him or anyone else. Once I get enough dough, I can get the hell out of Bay City and make a real life. But even if I continuously tell myself this, I know that Miranda will never let me go. I'm a money mule to her, bringing in as much money as anyone else she has on detail. She has more people on the take than ever before and any stiff that they find is never traced back to her. Even if it was, she would rather throw one of us to the pigs then get caught.

That's why I have little time, I need to get my money and leave without a trace, start a new life with a new name in a new city where Miranda is but a dream. I have no time for romance, no time to be dillydallying after a man, a cop no less. I have a goal and nothing is going to stand in my way.

* * *

The next time I work my little nook, I bring a small Swiss Army Knife with me. My gun was taken from me once, but a knife is easier to hide and faster to grip if I need to hurt someone. I am standing by a large plant (all nice posh buildings have large plants) and people are passing by me without even a second glance. It's nearly time for me to leave when I hear my whistle. I hear is so faintly that it almost feels like I am going crazy. But I am not because, after a moment of looking around m0e, I find the whistler. The only problem is that my whistler has the tall tale signs of being a cop.

The man is standing a few feet away, leaning against a blue mailbox with his legs crossed. His clothes are expensive, too expensive for a junkie. I quickly scan the crowd, eyeing for anyone suspicious. There is a vendor nearby eyeing the 'junkie' and a man leaning against a pole reading a newspaper, peeking over it every few moments. Cops aren't very good at hiding, they may think they are but damn they stick out worst then a purple elephant.

I walk away, not taking the chance of arrest, not for a few bucks. I hear the whistle again, following me and I know, I feel his eyes on me, that the 'junkie-cop' is following me. I've been made, isn't that what cops say? I've been made and now, in my stilettoes and shorts, I think about making a run for it. But why give them cause for an arrest. Running looks bad, don't it? Why run if you're innocent. I turn the corner, waiting for my tail to do the same. He doesn't see me (someone must have failed his surveillance course in cop school) leaning against the wall a few feet away from the corner.

"You following me, man?" I ask. He whips around, eyes wide, and shakes his head. "First you whistle at me and now you follow me? What is up with ya? I ain't no hooker if that's whatcha looking for."

"I-I thought you were someone else," the junkie-cop says. "Sorry."

I watch him walk away and think I better go report this to Martha and stay away from my corner for a bit. Too many cops sniffing about.

* * *

**A/N: I might have been a bit harsh on Starsky. *hugs Starsky-poo***


End file.
